


Making Messes Matter

by ssupernovad



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Artist Keith, Best roommate award goes to Lance, College AU, Fluff, Frustrated artist Keith, Help it's 11 PM, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, i cried while writing, klance, omg they were roommates, roommate au, they were roommates, this is too fluffy idk if you can handle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssupernovad/pseuds/ssupernovad
Summary: Art Major Keith has sent too many unfinished sketches to the trash. His roommate, Lance, gets tired of it.





	Making Messes Matter

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out my tumblr: @volkogane  
> The college roommate AU nobody wanted. This was supposed to be my entry for the third round of the VLD Games, but Team Yellow got eliminated :(((( but I really liked it so here it is <3

“Nothing’s working.” Keith sneers. The frustration could be heard in his voice, loud and clear. He messes up the hair on his head, creating an unruly mop of black _crap_ —or whatever the hell a bird’s nest looks like _._ His eyes look droopy, and his hands have never looked more red in his entire life. He’s clutching his stylus in between his fingers, knuckles turning white with pressure. His head flops back, and he’s staring at the ceiling for what feels like the hundredth time today. Another groan escapes his lips.

Lance notices his dissatisfaction, the textbooks drops from his hands and onto his bed. “What do you mean? Everything’s working, you’re just not finishing them.”

Keith rubs his eyes, sitting upright once again. He unfolds a leg from being bent underneath him because man, he couldn’t feel it anymore. A constant headache has been clouding his mind ever since he sat at his chair five hours ago. He feels like he might get sick, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind because this has happened a lot of times in the past, and for every single instance he seems to get through it. This time, it’s quite different. He doesn’t know what’s exactly the thing that’s making this art project unique from the others that came before. Maybe because it’s the first time in a while that his professor had him make something digitally? Or maybe because the deadline is next week and he hasn’t even developed a good concept for what he’s gonna do, and there’s a ton of work-in-progresses in his documents and it’s nine PM and he’s hungry and his head hurts and his hand is starting to numb and—

“ _Keith_.” Lance spoke. The artist turns his head and the two pairs of eyes meet. Lance has seen Keith during his best and worst times. He’s been there through his ups and downs, through his family problems and anxiety issues and whatever that’s bothering him. He’s already comforted him a thousand times before. They’ve cried on each other’s shoulders, hugged so tight that it hurt, stayed up late just staring at the white ceiling, talked about what they’re most scared of. Lance knows what to do. He always does.

He moves closer, dangling his long legs over the edge of the bed. “Don’t go too hard on yourself, man. I think you’re a _great_ artist. You just don’t think the same.”

“Oh trust me, Lance, I think the same.” Keith spoke. “Well, _thought_ the same.”

“Why do you beat yourself up every single time? Could you stop doubting yourself for once?” the softness in Lance’s voice seems to seep in through Keith’s ears and travels straight to his heart. He feels it, settling in there like a snake in its burrow. Maybe it’s not his best example, but still, it warms his whole body.

“I can’t. It’s become a hobby, I guess.” Keith shrugs. He doodles lazily on his tablet, creating squiggly lines and circles that have no end. He ends up sketching a tiny figure of himself—that Lance finds adorable—in the corner of the new document, holding up a sign that says ‘ _will do anything for great ideas._ ’

“Just…” Lance looks around the room, as if the answer is floating nearby. “Get some sleep and maybe tomorrow something will come to mind.”

Keith stuffs his face into his hands. “That’s the thing, I’ve been doing that for the past week.”

“Maybe,” for once in his life, Lance doesn’t know what to do to make Keith feel better.

Would he want some Cheetos?

Keith doesn’t move. His back just rises and falls from his long and dragged out breaths. Lance reaches over to stroke his back, like he’s done when he’s throwing up in the toilet just because of a few drinks. He’s got one of the weakest stomachs ever.

He groans again. Lance finds it hard to keep composure. He doesn’t let himself panic, though. If he does, Keith would sense it and possibly could slam his head against his drawing tablet.

Lance hears a sniff.

“Hey, _hey,_ you’ll get through this.” he keeps soothing Keith’s back. He wonders if he could feel it.

And yeah—he does. The feeling of carefulness and affection flows from Lance’s soft fingers through Keith’s red hoodie, travelling along his nerves and blood vessels, landing in that tender spot in his heart once again. He feels it. He feels Lance.

But sadly, it isn’t enough to keep his wild thoughts at bay.

He lifts his head up, revealing a wet spot on the arm of his hoodie, soaked with his tears. Damn—he didn’t even know he was crying until Lance stopped stroking his back. He misses it as quick as he acknowledged it.

His back rests against the chair. His nose is red like a ripe tomato. There are bags under his eyes and his lips are quivering, his hair’s a complete mess and his face is too pale and Lance—

—Lance doesn’t care what he looks like right now. He wants to make him feel better but he doesn’t… he doesn’t know how. That’s the problem with this boy. His emotions could easily get out of grasp, and he could lose control in a split second but _still_ Lance doesn’t care because this is Keith Kogane. And sure, he could get hot-blooded or temperamental sometimes and the stars and the asteroids and the meteors could disagree with him, but only heaven knows that Lance would do anything to make him feel better about himself because he loves him. Nothing could tell him otherwise.

“How? Tell me how? It looks like you know _exactly_ what to do.” Keith mumbles. He’s looking down at his feet, covered with stupid Batman socks that stop right at his ankle. The tears have stopped, but the thudding in his heart hasn’t. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the approaching deadline, or if it’s because of Lance.

“Just… pick one of your drafts and stick with it. If it feels wrong, then pick another one then do it all again.” Lance gulped. He wasn’t an art student himself, but it feels like something one would say.

Here’s the thing, Lance isn’t sure of a lot of things. He wasn’t sure when entered the classroom for the first time in kindergarten. He wasn’t sure when his mamá enrolled him into one of the biggest private schools in elementary. He wasn’t sure if he was picking the right major in college.

But at that moment, as he was looking at Keith’s gloomy and downcast figure, in their shared dorm at 9 PM on a Thursday, he was sure of one thing: he loved this boy with all his heart, and even a lot more after that.

So, in the best way that he could, he tried to cheer him up. It wouldn’t be his _best_ choice, but, it was something.

“And if _that_ doesn’t work?” Keith breaks the heavy silence. His voice is a bit stable now, no sign of crying whatsoever. He recollects himself faster than he lets himself fall apart.

“Then keep going.” Lance says without a pause. “Make your messes matter. Piece things together. Change the colors up a bit. Switch to a different brush. Go on Pinterest, I don’t know, just… _keep going._ ”

Keith stares at him for a brief moment. For the third time that night, the warmth escapes Lance’s eyes and it impales Keith’s irises and it goes—it travels and it flows and it wanders and it moves— it goes straight to his heart. His heart… the reason he’s alive and breathing right now. These moments of electricity it seems, fuels his heart to do one thing:  
To keep going.

In a flash, he reaches over and hugs Lance. As tight as he could. As if someone was going to bust into their room and tear them apart. As if the whole apartment complex that’s way too pricey even for them would crumble at any moment. As if a meteor—bigger than the one that killed the dinosaurs millions of years ago—would hit right in between them. As if the world would end right at that second.

He hugged Lance to make him feel all the warmth he gave him. He hugged him to say thank you. He hugged him… he hugged him. He just did.

And he loved him.

They’re in love. That’s a statement. It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact. No textbook or encyclopedia, no articles or editorials, no politicians or novelists could change their mind.

And they don’t kiss. They don’t make out. They don’t rip clothes off of each other. They don’t have sex. They don’t sleep in the same bed naked.

Because lust rushes. But love waits.  
It waits.

And it waits.

And it waits.

And it keeps going.

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry at that last bit from Bridgett Devoue.


End file.
